


Lazaretto

by Pink_Dalek



Series: Drive [4]
Category: Endeavour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: We currently have a cat with a tummy bug who doesn’t always use the litterbox. Hubster and I have been taking turns cleaning poop off the carpet (which I just shampooed a week ago, argh) today, and he just got to clean up kitty barf.I need a distraction, so here’s the next installment of the “Drive”-verse.





	Lazaretto

**Author's Note:**

> We currently have a cat with a tummy bug who doesn’t always use the litterbox. Hubster and I have been taking turns cleaning poop off the carpet (which I just shampooed a week ago, argh) today, and he just got to clean up kitty barf.
> 
> I need a distraction, so here’s the next installment of the “Drive”-verse.

"I saw something in the _Mail_ that said Joy Pettybon was caught sending herself threatening letters," Joan told Morse a week after the case had finished.

"She was. Your dad caught her out— it was a brilliant bit of detective work."

"Her daughter gave an interview to them: said she drove her own husband to suicide when he was arrested with another man, and that's why she hates homosexuals. And that she thrives on the publicity, even as she goes around saying women should stay home."

"So Bettina got a bit of her own back. Joy Pettybon asked if I was saved. I had to bite my tongue; I wanted to tell her I usually spend my Sunday mornings at St. Launderette."

Joan laughed. "Shame you couldn't say it, just to see her reaction." She began rummaging in his kitchen. "It's a wonder you don't have scurvy, or beriberi, or something, the state of your larder. You need fruit and veg," she scolded gently.

"Beans are veg," he protested.

" _Green_ veg, Morse. And a bit of meat here and there. No wonder you're so thin."

“Don’t fuss, Joanie. I was planning to take you out to eat.”

 

When Morse arrived home the next evening, the smell of something delicious cooking was wafting from his flat, of all places. "You didn't have to make dinner."

“I had a half-day at the shop, so I stopped at Richardson’s and borrowed your spare key from Dad.”

Joan could understand why her mum loved feeding people. Morse devoured his first helping, exclaiming over how good it was. It was gratifying to watch his pleasure in a good meal, knowing she was the one who'd provided it. He went back for seconds before he'd had his fill, then insisted on doing the washing up.

"It's only fair, after you cooked. You made twice as much as we needed, though."

"I thought you might like to have leftovers another night."

She started making dinner for them once or twice a week, always leaving enough for leftovers for a second meal. Morse was taking her out to dinner and then a film or concert at least once a week now.

 

Joan was waiting outside the flat when he brought home a grey parrot in a large cage. “You didn’t tell me you were getting a pet.”

“I’m not. It’s from a case. Could you clear off that table for me?” Morse settled the cage. “This is Jeremiah. Jeremiah, this is Joan.”

“Mean old cow!” the parrot squawked.

“Charming,” Joan said drily.

“I was called out to his owner’s home today. Sudden death. The RSPCA’s bird person is ill, so he needs a place to stay for a few days. I was afraid if I left him at the station, he’d pick up even more bad language. Do you mind if we just get a quick dinner at the pub? Work’s gone mad. Farnleigh sent a inmate to Cowley Hospital for surgery, and we’re keeping him under guard; he’s the only witness against what’s left of the Matthews gang in a jewelry store robbery. I was on my way there when Bright collapsed in his office.”

“What happened? Coronary?”

“Bleeding ulcer. He had emergency surgery. The doctor is optimistic, but he’s going to be on leave awhile. Your dad is acting station chief while he’s out. I need to get back to the hospital by eight.”

Morse came home exhausted a couple of days later to find Joan busy in his flat. It was tidy, and something was simmering on the cooker. “I’m home at last.”

Joan greeted him with a kiss. “I'm having no luck teaching Jeremiah a more appropriate vocabulary. Watch this: Jeremiah, say 'Hello, cutie.' You can do it. 'Hello, cutie.'"

"Mean old cow!"

"See what I mean?" Joan returned to the kitchenette on one side of the lounge.

Morse tried not to laugh as he went over to the cage. "I brought you some food," he told the bird, pouring seed into the container.

"Mean old cow!"

Morse shrugged. "I think he just prefers insults."

"Maybe you should keep him at the station. A parrot that swears and insults people might tickle the fancy of some crusty old curmudgeon. Tea's almost ready. Stew on mashed potato; I can't make decent dumplings to save my life. Sam calls them concrete lumps."

"It sounds much better than anything I would have cobbled together." Morse noticed the corner of a piece of stationery protruding from beneath the layers of newspaper lining Jeremiah's cage and carefully drew it out while the parrot crunched his dinner. "Oh!"

"What?"

"This is the letter we've been looking for! Mrs. Zacharides, Jeremiah's owner, was in dispute with the hospital. Her daughter told me she'd had a letter from them, but everyone there said the matter was closed." He scanned the letter, Joan coming to look over his shoulder.

"Do you think that's who killed her?"

"Quite possibly."

Joan stared at the parrot. "Do you think he saw? The murder, I mean?"

"Dunno. Probably." Morse was engrossed in the new clue, busily making connections.

"Maybe that's what the murderer said— do any of your suspects say 'mean old cow'? It sounds like something someone younger would say."

"It's possible."

"Jeremiah, did you see your mummy get hurt? Is that what they said? Are you trying to tell us something? Poor bird." Joan reached into the cage. Jeremiah stepped onto her hand and she lifted him out, stroking his head and back. “Is that what the bad person said? The person who hurt your mummy?"

"Mean old cow!" Jeremiah walked up her arm. He perched on her shoulder. "Hello, cutie!"

"Oh, you're a good bird! Such a good, smart bird!"

“Hello, cutie!”

Morse watched them, a slight smile on his lips. Jeremiah groomed long strands of Joan's hair while she crooned to him what a good bird he was, until she had to finish tea. He squawked once at being put back in the cage, then obediently hopped onto his perch.

"Are you going to ring Dad about that letter?"

"Can we eat first, at least? Smelling the stew made me realize I'm famished."

After finishing the washing up, he found Joan going through his music. "I don't have any pop records."

"I know." She selected the classical compilation Strange had given him and put it on the turntable, setting it to play softly in the background.

"I probably should phone your dad.” He caught her hands in his. They gazed into each other's eyes. Morse seized his courage and leaned down to kiss her gently on the lips. “I’d rather just spend a quiet evening with you.”

Her answer was to kiss him back. "I’d like that.”

In the end, Fred simply asked Morse to read the letter to him. "And it's on the hospital letterhead?"

"Seems to be. My discharge instructions last month were on the same paper, if I remember correctly. Unfortunately I binned those after a week or so, so I don't have them to compare."

"All right. I'll take a shufti at it tomorrow morning, and we'll go from there."

Quiet evenings in were quite lovely, especially when they involved cuddling.

 

Morse came home the next night exhausted, and wasn’t surprised to find Joan in his flat again. "Sorry I'm late. We solved the case, though. Or cases, I should say. Bright was almost the latest victim of Bed Ten."

"Tell me about it." When Morse hesitated, Joan looked at him sternly. "I don't see a hall table in this flat. Besides, maybe if Dad hadn't sheltered me so much, I might have had more street smarts when Paul Marlock came along."

She had a thick vegetable and noodle soup simmering on the cooker, and offered him a taste. "What do you think? Dash more salt?"

"Just a bit, I think. It turned out our murderer was a nurse." He told her the whole sad, sordid story, winding up with saving Bright. "It turned out all he needed was a bit of sugar to counteract the insulin."

"I had a friend at secondary who was diabetic. She always kept a packet of sweets in her bag in case her blood sugar dipped or her insulin jab was a bit too strong."

Morse rubbed his shoulder. "Had to break down the door of the chapel. I don't mind doing it for your dad, but Strange was there too, and he has nearly three stone on me."

" _We’re goin’ to the chapel, and we're breakin' down the do-o-o-or_ ," Joan sang, making him chuckle. "Does Dad use you as a battering ram often?"

"Occasionally. I've thought about learning to pick locks instead."


End file.
